


To Build A Home

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Impressions of their life together, Some Domestic Happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7041814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The little girl's face lights up every time he looks at her. Every time her small hand encircles one of his fingers, all the burdens are lifted from his shoulders and he glows. She'll never tire of the sight. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of small moments. Enjoy!

It starts with a particularly demanding case and a phone call.

"Red, I'm really sorry, but I don't know how…do you think you could-"

_Go to my house? Watch her tonight? Make sure she eats enough? Take care of her?_

"Yes, Lizzie. Of course."

* * *

She comes home to find him in her armchair, the house quiet.

"Hello, Lizzie. How did your case go?"

"Successfully. Is she sleeping?"

"Yes."

"And things went okay?"

"We had a lovely evening, Agnes and I. She's a wonderful child, Lizzie."

"Thank you, Red."

"My pleasure."

She feels strange, watches him as he grabs his coat and hat, watches him turn before he opens the door.

"Don't hesitate to call me, Lizzie. If you need anything at all, don't hesitate to call me."

* * *

She calls him the next morning.

He comes over for dinner.

He spends the night for the first time three days later.

* * *

He smiles in his sleep now. Just like the little girl.

It's something she's come to notice on the rare occasion she wakes before him. She remembers his sleeping habits from their time on the run together, how he used to wake up distraught, sometimes trembling, yet she never asked the right questions.

This is a different Raymond Reddington altogether. Serene, calm. Not running, not being chased. It's the man underneath the persona, the man she called once to watch her daughter.

He is so full of love for the two of them. There were times she didn't realize this, couldn't have, but she can't imagine life without it now. She can't imagine life without waking up to a kiss on her forehead and his sweet expression.

She might become a morning person after all.

* * *

"You're spoiling her, Red."

"I know." He says it with pride, not regret.

She can't help but smile at him.

* * *

She likes to watch them.

Sometimes she comes home after an exhausting day at work and there he is, fast asleep on the couch, armor off and sleeves rolled up and his vest unbuttoned, with her resting on his chest, softly rising and falling to the pattern of his breathing, his hand holding her to him safely, instinctively, gently.

Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night and the bed is empty and the baby monitor gives her a clue, and she silently sneaks up on him in the nursery, the little girl in his arms, much more awake than her mother, which isn't difficult these days, and he is whispering and tells her a story and speaks of magical things, of princesses forgiving monsters, of love and _sleep now, sweetheart_ , and the little girl closes her eyes reluctantly, slowly, slowly, slowly, doesn't want to miss a word he is saying, and she understands that impulse, too. He is quite a gifted storyteller. When he sees her, finally, he smiles and she takes his hand. _Come to bed_ , she says and he nods and kisses her.

Sometimes she walks into the kitchen and sees her strapped into her highchair and he's cooking right by her side, lectures her on the importance of nutritious and healthy ingredients, and she's giggling, entertained by his use of complicated words, and he puts down the utensils and moves towards her, _do you find that funny, Agnes_ , and tickles her cheek and neck, _do you_ , and the house is filled with laughter.

She never thought she could be this happy.

* * *

"Would you like to go on a trip, Lizzie?"

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere you'd like."

"What about work?"

"I could talk to Harold. Surely there are criminals to catch anywhere in the world." He kisses the corner of her lips. "We could call it an investigative expedition."

"How about Spain?"

"Why Spain?"

"Because you once promised me Spain and took me to Iowa instead."

He beams at her and pulls her closer and closer.

* * *

The little girl's face lights up every time he looks at her.

Every time her small hand encircles one of his fingers, all the burdens are lifted from his shoulders and he _glows_.

She'll never tire of the sight. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

* * *

Sometimes he needs to leave, ever the businessman and some things can't be delegated, and then he kisses them goodbye, promises he'll be back before they know it.

She misses him the instant he closes the door.

He always comes back with a gift.

* * *

They're having dinner, Agnes seated in between them and a spoon quickly approaching her, _open your mouth, sweetheart_ , and the little girl doesn't stand a chance against the pleading eyes of the man in front of her, she really does come after her mother, it's that particular pout of his, the criminal mastermind and his rather unfair methods.

"Good girl," he says.

She can't believe this is her evening routine on most days now, still, after all these months, to have him at her kitchen table, to spend time with him and her daughter, a family and the certainty he will be there in the morning, next to her, always next to her.

She reaches for his hand and holds on to it and he kisses her palm.

Every so often she thinks her heart might burst from sheer affection.

* * *

"There's something I'd like to discuss, Lizzie."

"It's about us?"

"Yes."

"Should I be worried?"

"No."

"Do you have to go on another trip?"

"No."

"So?"

"How do you like the idea of us moving? There is a house I'd like to show you and it's rather perfect for the three of us."

"The three of us?"

"Yes. A home for the three of us."

She thinks she might be dreaming.

* * *

Files are scattered across the table and she's slowly working her way through them, another day, another case, and she hears them play in the living room, a welcome distraction, the sound she loves the most.

She watches as he puts his fedora on the child's head and she almost disappears.

It's her legs that sway in delight, her muted giggle from underneath the wool.

"Almost as sophisticated as her father," he says while smiling at her and it takes him a second too long until he realizes. 

He looks scared and sorry and that just won't do and she's quickly by his side.

"Almost," she says and encircles his waist. "She's getting there."

His kiss is closed eyes and silent gratitude and a million other things.

* * *

She had a fantasy once. About a walk in the park and a husband and their little girl.

The reality of it, she thinks, is so much better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was planned as a one-shot but due to the incredibly nice feedback (and some encouragement from my friend imyourplusone) I decided to add another chapter. 
> 
> Chapter 2 works by itself but I'd recommend reading chapter 1 as well. Enjoy!

It's a Sunday when they find the time for a short trip.

He shows her the house without commentary, it needs to be her own, this first impression, without bias or influence. He had looked at so many estates over the past months, always detecting a problem, something that didn't feel right. Except for this one. This one was perfect.

He's nervous but feigns confidence, follows as she steps into another room.

"The nursery," he finally says, a bit too quiet.

His taste really is impeccable, she thinks. They could paint the room yellow, something bright and joyous and wonderful, she can picture it so vividly, colorful photographs and a future.

They could make it their own, this house, just big enough but not excessive.

She takes his hand and pulls him closer.

"When are we moving?"

* * *

"You can't paint in that."

Surrounded by brushes and cans of paint, she stares at him with blatant skepticism. He had been at a meeting and she had expected him home much sooner, and now here he was, all business attire, tie and vest and not willing to lose another minute. She's never seen anyone look this sophisticated in the middle of a remodeling.

As he discards his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, he almost smirks.

"Watch me, Lizzie."

* * *

She spends the first night in their new home on the porch, watches the sun set and the stars appear, so much brighter here just outside the city. He hands her a blanket and a glass of wine, joins her close to midnight after all his tasks are taken care of.

When he's settled and comfortable, she puts her head on his shoulder. Not running away this time, not scared, but cared for and content. Her daughter sleeping upstairs.

"Are you happy?" he asks.

She smiles and kisses him.

* * *

"I have no choice, Lizzie," he tells her. "I have to go."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Two weeks."

She swallows, her wistfulness evident. Two weeks. An eternity.

"Will you be able to call?"

"Of course."

"Okay."

The car is already waiting for him, his bags in the trunk, and he hugs her one last time, she shouldn't be this emotional, it's not his first trip and she knows she's being selfish, but she wants him safe and she wants him home and she hates goodbyes, no matter how temporary.

When she closes the door, she lingers. Moves towards the nursery after a few minutes, before she hears a key in the lock.

When she turns around, he's looking back at her, his head tilted, that everlasting habit.

"They'll be fine without me," he says. Like it's nothing.

Her reaction is all feigned outrage and quick steps. Her arms around his neck.

" _Dammit_ , Red."

* * *

They've made a habit out of baking together, him and the little girl. Because he has a passion for pastries and because she is his best audience. From her spot on the counter she watches his every move, laughs when he leaves a trace of flour on her nose.

The icing is her achievement, or so he will tell her mother later. _She's a natural_ , he'll say.

He won't mention that the nozzle was much too large for her small hands, and that it was actually him who did all the work. It's really not that important.

* * *

Sometimes it's her who has to leave. Because work requires it.

When she comes home eventually, often late at night, she finds him asleep in their bed and the little one next to him.

When she lies down, no matter how careful, he wakes. Through drowsy eyes he'll watch her and reach out.

"Welcome home."

* * *

"Go back to sleep, Lizzie."

"But Agnes-"

"I'll go check. Go back to sleep."

* * *

He isn't careful enough. Just this once. He thinks of her, thinks of their daughter, when he tumbles and finally loses his balance, and he sees Dembe getting to him, _hold on Raymond_ , and then it all stops.

When he wakes, it's to the insistent sounds of the ICU and to her sleeping form in a chair next to his bed. There's a hand clasping his. And he's breathing.

When she wakes, it's to his apologetic eyes staring back at her and a barely audible whisper.

"I'm sorry."

"I know, Red."

Her fingers reaching for his pulse, his heartbeat.

"I know."

* * *

It's the small moments she treasures. When the little girl starts mimicking his expressions, when her sleepy frown turns into a smile. She adores him, it's quite easy to see, much like her mother. He's always there when they need him. No exception.

It's the mornings he loves the most. To wake up rested and beside her, nothing remarkable really, something like simplicity. Her fixing his tie. Them sharing breakfast. Except it isn't simple. It's rather extraordinary.

* * *

"So much better than Iowa."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

She can hear the waves outside their room, the sheets are soft against their skin. A vacation at long last.

"Red, maybe it's time to get up."

"Maybe."

"Or?"

He moves to kiss her.

"Stay a bit longer."

Another kiss.

"Yeah?"

And another.

"Definitely."

* * *

She worries less with him close by. Because he has an answer for everything. Because he listens.

It comes with the job, surely, this practical approach to challenges, finding solutions that work for the two of them. She never takes it for granted, given their history, so close to loss, so close to irreparable damage, the hurt they've shared.

It's the way he gives her space when she needs it, how he senses her struggles, how it's instinctive because he knows her better than anyone.

It's how she can't stay angry at him for too long because he won't let her.

It's how he challenges her, so certain of her abilities.

It's how he trusts her.

* * *

"Are you happy, Red?"

He lets his fingers move down her arm, feels her eyes on him in the dark. Takes his time before he leans over and presses his lips to hers.

"Yes, Lizzie."

Pulls the sheets tighter around them.

"I am."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly humbled by the response to this fic. Thank you all! Hope you enjoy these little bits as well.

She's lying awake in the middle of the night, her body resting against his side. She doesn't quite know why she can't seem to fall asleep, it's not for lack of exhaustion, but maybe there are too many things on her mind, too many thoughts rushing through her head.

"Red?" she inquires quietly in the dark.

She can't see his eyes, but his breathing pattern betrays him.

"What is it, Lizzie?"

She just wants to hear his voice, just wants to hear a story that calms her.

"Do you ever think about the future?"

"Yes."

"What does it look like?"

There's a brief pause, a moment he needs to make sure he picks the right words.

"It's a warm day in late August. There's a light breeze and the temperature is just right. You're walking along the beach in that red sundress I'm rather fond of."

She can't help but whisper against his shoulder. "So predictable."

"You smile as you watch Agnes play in the water. She's a surprisingly good swimmer, you know, even at her young age. A bundle of energy without a care in the world. Adventurous like her mother. But you don't need to tell her not to go in too deep- you know she'll be careful. She's a good girl."

She closes her eyes and sees it all play out in front of her now, never wants him to stop. And yet, there's something missing.

"And you?"

"What about me?"

He feels her questioning gaze on him, her concerns clear.

"Where are you in this picture?"

She worries, he knows, but there is no need. He reaches for her hand beneath the covers, finishes his story.

"I'm grabbing a towel from the house."

Intertwines their fingers and turns his head towards her.

"We don't want Agnes to catch cold when she comes out of the water, do we?"

* * *

"Another stuffed animal?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think we've reached maximum toy capacity?"

"There's no such thing, Lizzie."

* * *

"I really do need to get up, Red," she tells him between kisses.

"Five more minutes."

He's too good at this, positively pouting.

"Cooper won't be happy," she reminds him, tilts her head _just right_ towards his. She never stood a chance.

He grins victoriously.

"I'll write you a note."

* * *

"Would you mind if we stayed in tonight?"

They've made dinner plans, their appearances polished and sophisticated to match the occasion, dress and tux, but she doesn't feel well, just a bit too dizzy.

He doesn't need a reason why, is perfectly content to simply spend time with her no matter their surroundings. As he discards his tie and jacket and moves to the kitchen, she pushes off her heels and makes herself comfortable in the living room, listens to him rummage through the cabinets. He hands her a cup of tea a moment later, settles down beside her on the couch and pulls a blanket over her bare legs.

"Quite the attire for an evening at home," she remarks somewhat sheepishly.

He unbuttons his shirt, runs his eyes over her body to finally meet hers.

"I rather enjoy it," he says, his tone unmistakable. Just suggestive enough. "Almost makes me want to rob an embassy."

* * *

"She'll take her first steps soon, you know."

"Lizzie?"

"Yes?"

"Tell her to stop growing so fast."

* * *

"Drink this."

She feels miserable and useless, hopes that whatever he is handing her right now will chase the flu right out of her system.

When he joins her in bed, he moves unexpectedly close.

"You'll get sick, too." Her voice sounds foreign and weak.

"I've survived worse," he says with a smile. Brushes some loose strands out of her face and kisses her forehead. "Have a little faith, Lizzie."

She thinks she'll be good as new in the morning.

* * *

His legs are heavy when he enters the house. It's been a dreadful day with seemingly endless negotiations, and he couldn't have endured another minute of all the senseless debating, just wanted to get back home. He's not as patient as he used to be and maybe that hurts his business, but the alternative is simply so much sweeter. Someone waiting for him. Someone expecting him.

When he looks inside their room, he finds them on the bed, the little one curled up next to her mother, half asleep. He doesn't join them immediately, just stands there leaning against the doorframe, tired, surely, but captivated by the innocence of it all, a bedtime story, like any other family.

Except this was his. Except this was his very own.

He removes his shoes and leaves them out in the hall, covers the distance between them in muted steps and lies down carefully, doesn't want to disturb the peaceful setting. She's reclined against the headboard and watches him, still all suit and armor, until he urges her to _just keep going,_ her voice soothing as she resumes her tale.

The last thing he registers before drifting off is the sensation of her fingertips running over his scalp and the back of his neck. He thinks nothing could ever compare to this. Nothing could ever make him happier.

* * *

The little girl is safely seated in the crook of his elbow as he carries her around the room, listens attentively to his soft humming.

"Would you like to come with me to the Vanguard one day, Agnes?" he asks her. Her smile is bright and beautifully convincing.

"I'll take that as a yes," he responds and kisses her cheek.

* * *

"I'll be home soon."

"Yeah?"

"I promise."

She should be sleeping but can't bring herself to end their conversation. It's not the same, of course, talking on the phone, but it has to suffice at times. His voice, it's like a lullaby really, and she wants him next to her, wants it to be real and near and not distorted by the terrible connection. She has to get up for work in 4 hours. She wonders how soon he has to hang up.

"I miss you," he tells her. An understatement. He longs to see her quite desperately.

"We miss you, too."

Then the call ends.

When he returns to them three days later, he pledges he won't leave again for a very long time. Because phone calls are not enough. Because not being able to kiss her goodnight is not enough.

* * *

"Do _you_ ever think about the future, Lizzie?"

"No, not really."

"Why not?"

There's a moment she simply looks at him, lets her eyes travel across his features, pauses here and there, thinks about how warm his skin feels against hers, how he seems to be the remedy for her troubles, _the long play_ , the way he almost sighs when she kisses him, still, as if it's a gift, something to cherish.

She doesn't think about the future because she doesn't want time to get ahead of them.

Because she wants to watch their daughter grow up together.

Because she loves him.

"Because I like the present just fine."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still amazed by the response to this fic. Thank you all so much!

She forgets sometimes that her job still makes life unpredictable, that not every risk can be calculated and anticipated. Some cases remain unsolvable, some end badly. Some claim their victims.

When she comes home late at night, he's seated on the couch with a book in his hands. It takes him one look to know something isn't quite right, they've always understood each other beyond words, and he checks for the page number so he can resume his reading at a later time.

„Lizzie, come here," he tells her and moves to the side. When she sits down next to him, he puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her against him.

„Would you like to talk about it?" he asks. But she doesn't. For now, she wants to forget that anything exists outside of _this_ , of his comfort, of his intuition, of just the right way to calm her mind.

She's silent for a few minutes, focuses on the sound of his breathing.

"Would you read to me, Red?" she finally inquires. Anything to mute the thoughts in her head.

As he picks up the book and finds the right position for the two of them, she closes her eyes. Listens to one paragraph, then another, his voice resonating somewhere within her, the events of the day slowly fading.

When she wakes hours later, it's with a blanket around her body and him perfectly asleep beside her, the book resting on his chest, rising and falling.

She wonders if he knows what these moments mean to her. How grateful she is to have him.

She thinks she will tell him first thing in the morning.

* * *

Some days he talks to the little girl for hours, about anything, his stories sometimes an adventure, sometimes a lullaby. He doesn't always get to finish his tales, watches the little girl drift off in his arms with her head against his shoulder quite frequently.

Some days he puts her down in her crib. Most days he doesn't.

Most days he remains still instead, softly brushes her cheek with his thumb every so often, _tomorrow_ , he'll tell her, _we can talk more tomorrow_.

He can hardly wait.

* * *

There's something about nighttime and its intimacy that makes it easier for her to broach certain subjects.

"Red?" she asks him one evening. "Would you tell me about your family sometime?"

"What would you like to know?"

Everything. She wants to know everything.

"What was your mother like? Start with that."

She shifts to rest her head on his pillow. Doesn't want to miss a single word.

He clears his throat and turns on his side, his eyes searching for hers in the dark. Then he begins.

She's relieved she doesn't have to get up early the next day. She hopes he'll talk for hours.

* * *

The grip on his finger tightens and tightens.

"We might have to delay dinner, Lizzie," he says with utter sincerity. "Agnes won't let me go."

* * *

She finds a neatly wrapped package on the kitchen table one morning.

As she removes the paper, a frame appears in her hands. Three familiar faces look back at her, they're smiling and content, it's not a posed image but a spontaneous one, a fleeting impression of a family, the little girl in the arms of her father and her mother watching them affectionately.

It's overwhelming, the happiness she feels. They're beautiful.

She notices a note attached to the back of the gift, the handwriting elegant and recognizable.

_I carry your heart with me  
(I carry it in my heart)_

There are footsteps approaching her from behind then, and a kiss pressed to her temple.

"Happy birthday, Lizzie."

* * *

"Which one do you pick, Agnes?"

He holds up two old records in front of her. Jazz albums, naturally. An early start to her music education.

She looks back at him with bright eyes, points her finger towards the one on the right.

"Excellent choice," he states proudly, receives a smile in return.

He might just make this a tradition.

* * *

Watching him dress remains one of her favorite morning rituals. The way he assembles his suits, the way every piece compliments the other so flawlessly, the precise work of his fingers buttoning his shirt and smoothing the material.

"You're staring, Lizzie," he teases.

She laughs, doesn't feel guilty in the slightest.

He turns away from the mirror and towards her, hands in his pockets, everything in place.

"Acceptable?"

She gets up from the bed, drapes the sheet around her bare skin and stops in front of him.

She reaches up to straighten his tie the slightest bit, for show rather than necessity, as the sheet falls to the floor in somewhat dramatic fashion.

His pupils are terribly dark suddenly.

"Perfect," she says with an edge in her voice.

He notes she's quite good at what she does. He wonders how long he can make the car outside wait.

"I really need to leave," he whispers, her body awfully close to his now, his argument entirely unconvincing.

She kisses him with purpose.

He thinks he'll have to fix his outfit for a second time this morning. He thinks that's a small price to pay.

* * *

It happens on a Sunday.

He's reading the paper when he hears it, the sudden outcry and his name echoing through the house, and he reacts instinctively, hurries towards the living room, hopes that everything is alright, everything _has to be_ alright-

"Red, look at her."

He slows down, leans against the doorframe to regain his composure, and can't believe his eyes when everything comes into focus.

One step. That's all she manages before losing her balance, before she tumbles backwards, before her mother catches her.

"Did you see that? Red?"

But he can't speak.

There were times he was convinced he would never experience a joy this profound ever again. There were times when he wouldn't have dared to think of having a family. There were times he couldn't see past his own solitude.

And now…

Now his daughter is taking her first steps. Now he gets to cherish.

"Yes, Lizzie." He wants to never let this go. "I saw."

* * *

"Red?"

"Yes?"

"I'm so glad you're here."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter puts a smile on your faces. Thank you for reading!

Sometimes she works late into the night, sorting through files and intel on her desk, when he enters the study with a cup of tea. Or coffee. Or whatever she needs.

She closes her eyes when she feels his hands on her shoulders, when he presses a kiss to the top of her head. When his fingers lightly massage her sore neck.

"Come to bed, Lizzie. It's late."

Sometimes she tells him it'll only be a minute because she is _this_ close to solving it and she can't turn away from it now.

Sometimes she follows him a bit reluctantly, sometimes she follows him without objection.

He makes sure work doesn't consume her, jokes about escaping to one of his secluded estates on an island far away.

"Just say the word," he tells her.

She thinks she will take him up on it in the near future. She thinks Red barefoot in the sand is a lovely picture.

* * *

She finds him in the nursery in his armchair one evening, story book abandoned on the floor and his feet propped up on the edge of the crib. He must have been reading to her before drifting off, she assumes, and now he's snoring softly with the little girl cradled against his chest.

She wants to fill entire volumes with these images, wants her memory to overflow with them.

Carefully she picks up the book and puts it back on the shelf with the others.

She'll let them rest for a while, the two of them.

He can finish his story later.

* * *

Her fingers skim the hem of his shirt, ghost across his skin every now and then, find the right spots hidden somewhere beneath the covers.

He turns to be closer to her, kisses the corner of her lips.

"Weren't you tired earlier?" she teases.

"Yes," he says. It's heavy and drawn out. Challenging. "Earlier."

* * *

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, just a silly thing."

"Lizzie."

She knows he won't let it go. She knows she owes him an honest response.

"I'm happy, Red. Truly happy. I never could have hoped that my life would turn out the way it did."

"But?"

"But I'm scared that something will happen."

It's not her fault, he thinks. It's the circumstances that have brought them together, the lives they have chosen, their shared experience. Good things rarely last in their world. Good things require protection.

"Lizzie, look at me."

She watches as he reaches out his hand to her, lifts her head to meet his gaze across the table.

His palm is warm against hers. Familiar and intimate.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says.

She knows that, too.

"Okay?"

She never had any doubt.

"Okay."

* * *

"One more step, Agnes."

It's still rather unsteady, her socked feet sliding across the floor, but he's proud of her effort, determined just like her mother. She's extraordinary.

She gets just far enough to grab his sleeve, holds herself up by his forearm.

"That's my girl."

* * *

It's another evening on the porch, the air much cooler now and fog rising in the distance. She's bundled up in one of his coats, thinks he'll have to be fairly persuasive if he wants it back later. She won't make it easy for him.

She hears footsteps approaching, feels something warm being dropped on her head, the brim of his hat suddenly in her field of vision. He steps in front of her, adjusts the fedora a bit to the right and pulls her hair out to the side.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Red?"

Her voice is playful now, her eyebrow raised in mock protest.

"Immensely, Lizzie." His expression is all confidence and delight. "Immensely."

* * *

He talks in his sleep sometimes. It's one of the few things she hasn't told him.

It's a habit she had first encountered during their time on the run. He seemed tortured then, his dreams rarely granting him an opportunity to rest, but she never knew how to broach the subject, didn't want to pry.

It's different now. Much different. Sometimes she simply listens.

"Don't worry, Agnes. I'll protect you," she hears him mumble.

She can't help but smile, it's the sweetest thing, and she tightens the blanket around them in the dark.

She'll stay awake just a bit longer.

* * *

"I think she's heating up."

"It's just a cold, Lizzie."

"Her forehead feels warm. Don't you think her forehead feels warm?"

"Lizzie, I promise you she's fine. Colds are perfectly normal."

"Okay."

He watches her look down at the little girl, eyebrows furrowed in worry, and he knows this won't do. He doesn't want her to be concerned, doesn't want her to feel anxious, no matter his own experience.

He runs a hand down her back, guides her toward him. Her arms lazily wrap around his waist, rest there as she hears him whisper.

"I'll call the doctor."

* * *

There's a gentleness about him that still amazes her.

It's how he grounds her with small touches, how he stands close when she feels insecure, it's how his lips linger and how his eyes remain shut when she kisses him.

It's the fact he understands her, knows the words she needs to hear. It's the fact that he is her favorite person to talk to, that his voice calms her like nothing else. It's the fact that his scars feel like a memory beneath her fingertips, that he lets her discover them.

It's how he speaks her name.

* * *

"Would you teach me how to cook?" she asks him over dinner.

He's briefly taken aback by her question, positively surprised.

"It would be my pleasure, Lizzie," he responds quickly, can't fully hide the spark of excitement. "But I need to warn you. The field is rather competitive these days."

She looks puzzled, doesn't quite understand where this is headed.

His smile is only slightly mischievous.

"Agnes has been making major progress."

* * *

"So about that island-"

It's just a whisper, just a fleeting thought sometime around midnight.

It's all he needed to hear.

"I'll contact the pilot in the morning."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some holiday happiness for you all- I feel like we all need it after this year. Here's to more fluff (preferably on screen) in 2017! Enjoy :)

"Would you know anything about this?"

"About what?"

"The mistletoe in the living room, Red."

He is preparing dinner in the kitchen, had been wondering when she would notice the small branch right above her preferred spot at the dinner table, the spot she would often occupy on weekends when cases required further scrutiny and when files lay spread out in stacks in front of her. The spot that interferes with happier pastimes.

He turns off the stove and sits down next to her, looks up at the mistletoe in mock surprise.

"Well, whoever did this clearly put some thought into it."

"How so?" she responds, decides to play along.

"Because it's placed quite strategically, don't you think?"

He's facing her now, smiles at her in that particular way of his, a bit impish, a bit mischievous.

"To distract me from work, I suppose?"

"Well, it _is_ a tradition-"

He leans closer.

"And surely bad luck if we didn't-"

Closer.

"And we wouldn't want to tempt fate now, would we, Lizzie?"

_Closer._

"And I'm supposed to believe you?" she whispers, the space between them quickly fading.

"No, of course not," he says before he kisses her. Before all thoughts of work vanish from her mind.

When he pulls away, he looks at her triumphantly.

"Criminals are notorious liars."

* * *

She knows he needs her a bit more during the holidays.

There are times when she catches a glimpse of his pensive expression, when he seems a bit removed from the world around him, and she stands closer then, kisses him gently, reminds him with small touches that things will be different this time, that she needs him, that _they_ need him.

That the present is very much real and perfect.

* * *

"Are you cold, Lizzie?"

"Just a bit."

They've been walking for a while now through the snow-covered landscape, the icy wind slowly taking its toll, her trembling hands becoming more obvious with every step.

"Come here."

He wraps his arms around her tightly and pulls her close, lets his hands travel over her back in massaging motions, shares his warmth with her.

"Better?"

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.

"Much better."

* * *

"Did you eat the last cookies, Red?"

"Cookies?"

"Yes, the ones we stored away for Christmas Eve."

"Maybe Agnes—"

"The jar was on the top shelf in the cabinet."

"She is a very clever child. I'm sure she could have figured out a way to reach—" Her raised eyebrow stops him and he takes her hand in a conciliatory gesture, intertwines their fingers. "I'll bake some more tomorrow."

* * *

Four days. She has to leave for four days.

An investigation that had been the top priority for months, finally a lead, finally a solution, and a mission that can't be postponed.

She tells him that she'll try to keep him updated on their progress and location, that she'll be careful, that she'll miss them terribly.

He tells her they will be fine, the little girl and him, that she shouldn't worry, that they will have enough time to celebrate Christmas once she comes back.

He doesn't tell her he has plans to keep busy during her absence.

* * *

"What do you think, Agnes?"

She's seated in the crook of his elbow and examines the tree in front of her, points at the glowing lights with her small fingers, the neatly distributed ornaments, laughs when he tickles her cheek. All the confirmation he needs.

They've spent the day decorating and wrapping presents, the little girl always by his side, his best audience, her judgment one he trusts. He wants to make this special for them, wants the surprise to be a memorable one. The gifts carefully arranged, the house warm and welcoming upon her return.

Their first Christmas as a family.

"But you can't tell her, okay?" he says quietly, like he's sharing a secret with her. Another giggle, his favorite sound, the most wonderful thing. The bond between father and daughter.

"Now, let's see if the cookies are ready."

* * *

He takes her on a walk through the snow, watches as he tries to follow in his footsteps without losing her balance.

It's easy to recognize her adventurous nature these days, how she gets up quickly even if she falls over. Sometimes he has to pick her up, needs to check if her jacket is still warm enough, if her mittens are still in place. Sometimes he pulls her along behind him on a sled, the nearby park a picturesque winter wonderland.

Sometimes he wonders how the simple things could feel this overwhelming.

Sometimes he wonders how he got this lucky.

* * *

"Is she sleeping?"

"She's getting there."

"Will you please kiss her goodnight for me?"

"Of course, Lizzie."

She has to end the call shortly after and he's glad she will be home soon. He puts down the phone and turns off the light, moves over to her side.

He thinks the bed is terribly empty without her.

* * *

"No peeking."

He guides her through the living room, one hand on her shoulder, the other covering her eyes, her bags discarded in the hall. She didn't have much of a chance to arrive, had been surprised by him almost immediately, just a quick hug for her daughter and now she doesn't know what to expect, her mind tired from the flight.

He stops them then, stands behind her with his arms around her waist and a soft whisper near her ear.

"Merry Christmas, Lizzie."

She opens her eyes slowly, doesn't know where to begin.

It's many things. The beautifully decorated tree, the gifts, the dim lights, the atmosphere.

It's the fact that he had spent the past days preparing this, the thought he must have put into it, the magic of it.

It's a particular ornament right in the middle, a small frame with a picture she recognizes, three smiling faces without a care in the world.

It's coming home to the two of them.

"Thank you," is all she manages, and it's not enough, it couldn't be, but it will suffice for now. She couldn't possibly find the right words.

"You're welcome," he tells her, as if it's nothing. Kisses her temple like a sweet habit. "Come on. There are gifts to be opened."

* * *

"It's been quite a year."

"Yes."

"What was your favorite moment?"

"Right now seems pretty good to me," he responds sincerely, pulls the duvet up to his chin.

"And besides right now?"

He is silent for a moment, thinks back on the events of the past months.

"The first time you asked me to spend the night."

"And why is that?" she inquires innocently, knows the answer perfectly well.

"Because it marked the beginning of something extraordinary." He kisses her neck. "We are quite good together, wouldn't you agree, Lizzie?"

"Very good," she says lazily, is distracted by his fingertips on her bare shoulder.

"Amazing, really."

"A great team."

"Yes," he whispers, moves his lips toward hers and smiles against her. "A great team."

* * *

"Lizzie?"

"Yes?

"How would you feel about spending New Year's Eve in Montreal? There is a particular restaurant-" He tightens his arm around her, tickles her skin with his breathing. "I hear they serve a marvelous aviation cocktail."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Here's some more happiness. Enjoy!

He tells her he has a surprise.

That they will be taking a brief trip to an undisclosed location, just the two of them, that Agnes will be perfectly safe in Dembe's care and that they will be back later that night.

He tells her that the plane is waiting.

He tells her to pack a dress.

There were times she would have been worried, would have asked a multitude of questions, but she trusts him enough to know better now, knows that Dembe is perfectly capable of watching after their daughter, knows that she could really use a break from work.

Knows that it will be a wonderful evening.

He leads her up Park Avenue mere hours later, his suit impeccable and his tie matching the navy shade of her dress, a charming detail, she thinks, those small specifics he pays great attention to.

"Getting closer," he assures her, though she doesn't mind the walk. They haven't seen each other nearly enough these past two weeks, with cases piling up on her desk and too little time, and she knows that's normal and a part of life, too, but she misses him, even in the most trivial moments, even when she knows he will be waiting for her at home, supportive and comforting, the way he's always been.

He stops then, opens a door and leads her inside.

"Right this way," he says as he guides her down a staircase and into a whole other reality, the light becoming warmer and the sounds of the city suddenly muted, through a room of empty chairs and tables, towards a leather banquette on the right side of a stage, the musicians nodding at them with a smile as they take their seats.

There are drinks waiting for them and she can't quite fathom it, that this is what he had planned, a jazz performance for just the two of them, the venue all to themselves, private and sweet and somewhat surreal.

She can't think of anything to say as the lights dim and the band starts playing, as she leans her head against his shoulder in quiet gratitude. But he understands.

Later that night, during their way back, he'll put his jacket around her to keep her warm and she'll kiss him, slowly, longingly, as the world disappears around them.

And both of them will wonder how they could ever have lived without this.

* * *

He's walking back and forth in her room, their evening routine, the little girl seated in the crook of his arm and watching him expectantly. She's trying hard to keep her eyes open, fights quite determinedly to postpone bedtime. Stubborn, he thinks. Wonders with a smirk who she got it from.

She's holding on to the lapel of his jacket, her grip loosening whenever she is close to drifting off. He had come home mere minutes ago, hadn't even had a chance to change. He just wanted to see her.

"Almost there, sweetheart," he says, starts humming a lulling tune. His secret weapon.

It's her hand that lets go first, then her head leaning forward, resting perfectly comfortable against his shoulder.

He notices Liz waiting for him in the hallway, her expression all love and reverie, and he puts a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. Carefully, he puts Agnes into the crib and kisses her forehead, tightens the blanket around her.

When he closes the door behind him, he is welcomed with a bright smile and her arms around his neck.

"I'm so glad you're home."

* * *

She wakes with a racing heart and trembling hands, disoriented in the darkness and her head spinning. She can't always control them, the bad dreams, the times when years of working with the FBI, the fear of loss and the haunting strikes of gunfire, catch up with her. She thinks he's still sleeping, doesn't want to disturb him, when she feels his arm around her waist and a faint pull.

"Come here," he says softly and waits for her to move closer. "Try to match my breathing."

In and out, in and out. She can feel his chest rise and fall, can feel her body relax bit by bit.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he whispers but she shakes her head. She'd much rather stay like this, safe and protected, the one place where nothing can hurt her.

He presses a kiss to her temple and tells her of good things, happy things.

She knows the nightmares will be gone next time she closes her eyes.

* * *

He wipes the tears off the little girl's cheeks, holds a tissue against the wound on her knee.

"What happened?" Liz asks, voice heavy with concern.

"She tripped before I could catch her. It's nothing that a few days of rest and a band-aid won't fix, right, Agnes?"

She stops crying then in instinctive confirmation.

"See, Lizzie? She's a fighter. Just like her mother."

* * *

She likes spring because it marks the beginning of something new, another year as a family. They get to spend time outside now, the air mild and welcoming, the joyful giggle she hears when he picks a daisy and puts it in their daughter's hair, when he walks with her through the meadow outside their house.

He likes spring because the sun rises early, a lovely glow on her sleeping form beside him. They get to see each other more now, will simply stay in bed some mornings and enjoy each other's company in the tranquility of dawn, his fingertips tracing rhythmic patterns over her skin, the world beautifully calm.

* * *

"What's the verdict?"

She watches him take the first bite, eagerly awaiting his evaluation. It's the first time she's tackled this particular recipe without his assistance and she's proud of the outcome, decides his cooking lessons have paid off quite impressively.

"I think the student has become the—"

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Red."

"I think you've done a wonderful job, Lizzie."

She's practically beaming, her expression endearingly accomplished.

"So, what's next?" she asks, looks at him with raised eyebrows. Ready for a challenge.

He grins and gets up, places his arms on either side of her, her back pressed against the counter and a kiss on the corner of her lips.

"Dessert."

* * *

"Red?"

"Yes?"

"How about another trip to New York? I hear the jazz venues are marvelous."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured we needed something nice and happy, so here it is. This fic is very dear to my heart and I hope many of you still enjoy it. Thank you all for reading!

It starts with an open window and a pie reference.

"Red, what's going on?" It's the sudden cold breeze that woke her, the room still dark and his side of the bed empty, and she spots him by the window, seemingly lost in thought. She wonders if he's seeking reprieve from a nightmare but he doesn't appear to be upset, just a bit pensive. With light steps she walks up to him, picks up one of his sweaters he had draped over the footboard and puts it on, the knit fabric comfortable against her skin. She lets her fingertips run over the back of his head in gentle motions and he returns her inquiring gaze then, his expression open and kind.

"Hey," she says softly. "Why are you up?"

"It's here, Lizzie. Fall is here."

She links her arm through his, leans against his side. He feels warm, despite the chilly September morning, and she thinks there's a story there, she can sense it. Something bittersweet. A wistfulness surrounding him.

"What's so special about fall?"

He starts quietly, like he's letting her in on a secret. She thinks that maybe he is.

"When I was a child, I used to spend many weekends in the fall on my grandparents' farm. My grandmother, she was an extraordinary woman. Sage, sweet. Considerate of everyone around her. A bit stubborn. Best baker in the land. Whenever I would walk into the kitchen, there'd be a hint of apples and cinnamon in the air and she would be there welcoming me with that bright smile of hers. It's where I felt at home." He pauses, the images so vivid now, the melancholy heavy on his heart. "Fall brings good things along with it, Lizzie."

"Like apple pie," she whispers.

"Like apple pie."

She presses a kiss to his shoulder, slowly makes her way back towards the bed.

_Good things._

She might just be able to help him with that.

* * *

"It's gorgeous up here." She breathes in the crisp air, marvels at the colorful view in front of her, the changing leaves painting a stunning picture. "Worth the trip."

"Lizzie, I get no pleasure out of saying this, but—"

"You told me so, yes. But when I suggested a relaxed Sunday walk to get a few glimpses of the fall foliage, I didn't exactly count on a plane ride to New Hampshire."

"It's all about spontaneity, Lizzie. Keeps the romance alive."

She playfully rolls her eyes at him, watches as Agnes takes a few unsteady steps and almost falls over into a pile of leaves before Red catches her.

"Careful there, sweetheart," he whispers as he picks her up, the little girl holding on tightly to his lapel. "Come on, let's see what other adventures await us down the path."

She thinks he's ridiculous sometimes. She thinks he makes her happier than she ever thought possible.

* * *

"Lizzie, please tell me you didn't buy these." He's holding two bags of candy corn, the distaste in his expression almost comical. "Please tell me they were a gift you accepted out of courtesy."

"Drop the bags, Reddington," she replies much too earnestly, breaking his composure. Confidently, she grabs the candy off the counter and leaves to hide it in her closet. When she returns, he observes her with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk.

"I take it this concludes the candy corn debate?" he asks as he leans in to kiss her, knows how to pick his battles.

She pulls him closer, hums against his lips.

"I take it I won."

* * *

The first round is a complete failure. The crust melting underneath the filling, the stove a sticky nightmare.

The second round is a partial success. The edges the desired golden brown, the taste a bit too flat.

The third round is the charm. The lattice neatly arranged, the filling bubbling up beautifully.

He'll be back from his trip tomorrow night.

She figures that gives her enough time. She hopes she'll get it right.

* * *

He notices it the moment he walks into the house.

_A hint of apples and cinnamon._

He leaves his bag in the hall and follows the sound of unintelligible muttering into the kitchen, his heart almost jumping at the thought, his mind wondering if his instincts are correct.

It's a mess, baking utensils scattered across the counter, bowls and measuring cups stacked disorderly in the sink, small piles of sugar somewhere in the middle of it all, but he doesn't care about any of it, only focuses on  _her._ Her unconscious humming as she assembles the spatulas. The faint traces of flour in her hair. Her relieved expression when she finally sees him.

"So," he begins, "apple pie?"

"Fall brings good things along with it, remember? Only sometimes  _good things_  require some intense preparation and detailed planning."

"And what's this?" he asks as he spots a manila folder on the table.

"It's my pie file."

"Your pie file?"

"Yes. My case notes. Different recipes, a chart for which apples will give the pie the most balanced taste. I read up on blind baking. Did some trial runs."

"Trial runs?"

"Yes. It was mostly the crust giving me trouble—"

He listens to her explain the whole process, the errors of the first try,  _I'm glad you weren't here to see that_ , the advancements of the second,  _I knew I was on the right track_ , moves around her to grab some plates from the cabinet and set the table, her ramblings similar to the investigation of a criminal case, and he's in awe, really, can't believe she did all of this for him. When it's all done, he interrupts her with a kiss, drawn-out and so, so  _soft,_ his hands around her waist and his breathing unsteady.

"Thank you, Lizzie. It's perfect," he tells her and holds up two forks in front of her. "Now, shall we?"

* * *

"You know that's my sweater, right?"

She hugs the fabric closer around her body.

"You're not getting it back, Red."

* * *

She comes home much later than expected. She had called him earlier, unable to leave work, the suspect taken into custody and the case as good as solved, and he had told her not to worry, that he's got everything under control.  _We will see you later, Lizzie. Be careful._ And now here she was, finally unlocking the front door on this Halloween night and hurrying into the living room.

"Am I too late?"

"You're just in time, Lizzie. We're all set for round two."

Well.

She takes a deep breath and takes in the spectacle in front of her. She doesn't quite know where to look first. There's chocolate bars and candy spread out on the dining table, a giggling plush orange lump with a matching headpiece sitting in the midst of it and him standing by her side, dressed impeccably in one his regular three-piece suits. When he notices her staring, he practically beams at her.

"We are assorting our reward, Agnes and I," he explains proudly.

"And she is—"

"A pumpkin. We were hoping that would be obvious."

It takes her a moment before she realizes what's going on, what she missed tonight.

"You went trick-or-treating?"

"Yes. Well, Agnes did. I was simply accompanying her. Even I couldn't compete with that rather delightful pumpkin attire of hers."

"And you're dressed as?"

"Very funny, Lizzie." He straightens his tie purposefully, responds with mock indignation. "Careful, otherwise Agnes and I are going to have to eat all these goods by ourselves."

She can't help the smile spreading across her face, the two of them the sweetest sight.

"This is wonderful, Red," she tells him, buttons up her coat again. "So about that round two…"

Later, as they're returning to the house with more bags full of candy, the little girl placed safely in her father's arms, they watch as her eyes repeatedly close on their own account.

"I think the pumpkin is tired."

"I don't blame her. We had quite a productive day, didn't we, Agnes?" he says as he gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I'm a bit disappointed you didn't have a costume, Red," she teases as they cross the threshold. "You could have gone as an FBI informant. Or we could have found a matching pumpk—"

"I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself, Lizzie," he interrupts her quickly. "I suppose there's always next year."

As Liz follows them towards the nursery, Red stops at their bedroom door instead.

"How about she'll stay with us tonight?"

It's a simple question, a seemingly obvious one, and yet there's more to it, an opportunity for her to spend more time with her daughter, to make up for the moments she missed earlier in the evening. It's what he wants for her. Memories as a family.

She nods, the words of gratitude hidden in the look shared between them.

"Did you buy her pumpkin pajamas, too?" she asks, her fingers gently tickling the little girl's neck as he turns to switch on the light.

"Like I said, Lizzie," he pauses, chuckles as Agnes yawns into his shoulder, "there's always next year."

* * *

"I think we might have a future. This baking thing and I."

He's lying on his back looking up at the ceiling, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand drawing lazy circles down her arm.

"Is that so?"

"It's a bit like solving a case. It requires focus, preparation—"

"Finesse."

"Precision." She shifts so she can get a glimpse of his profile, the slight upturn of his lips. "I can see why you would enjoy it. It's a perfect combination of skill and intuition."

"Are you profiling me based on my baking habits, Lizzie?"

She grins, moves closer to rest more comfortably against him and closes her eyes.

"Consider it pillow talk."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A holiday chapter as a thank you to all of you who continue to read my stories. I hope 2018 will be a great one for you :) Enjoy!

"I think we need a change of scenery. Something festive. Don't you agree, Lizzie?"

It's the beginning of another long week, her case files piled up in stacks on the dining table. It's the only routine her schedule allows them, having breakfast together, enjoying whatever creations he comes up with as he moves back and forth along the counter.

"It sounds tempting. But work—"

"—can surely wait."

"Crime doesn't take a break, Red," she notes with a tired smile.

"You're right, it doesn't," he responds, walks over to her with a plate of caramel French toast, "but  _you_  have to from time to time."

"What did you have in mind?"

He sits down across from her, waits for her to take the first bite and only continues when she gives him a quick thumbs-up.

"Have you ever experienced New York at Christmastime?"

"I haven't."

"And would you like to?"

"I'm sure it's wonderful."

They're her favorite, these trips they escape on when their everyday lives become too overwhelming. She remembers their walk down Park Avenue back in spring, the private jazz performance, his boundless ability to surprise her. His coat wrapped around her.

She could really use a break.

Some time as a family.

"We would have a lovely stay," he says as he gets up to refill their cups, stops right behind her and rests his hands on her shoulders, massages her skin in soft motions. A kiss on the top of her head just as he breaks the contact. "Think about it."

* * *

It's an arbitrary moment that does it. The way she knocks over her coffee and spills it all over her desk. The way she sighs in exasperation. The way she decides it's time for her to leave the office to itself for a few days.

When she unlocks the door that evening and steps into the kitchen with a weary expression, he looks at her with hesitant expectation.

"So, about that New York idea…"

His arms around her in silent comfort and a whisper in her hair.

"I'll call the pilot."

* * *

He tells the little girl of a secret plan, somewhat of a Christmas gift, as he carries her down the hall towards the nursery.

"But not a word, okay, Agnes? We're in cahoots now, you and I," he whispers stealthily, her small fingers playfully poking his cheek in response, breaking his feigned earnestness. Only a chuckle left.

"I'll take that as a yes."

* * *

"You packed a tux?"

"I like to be prepared, Lizzie."

"And what's the occasion?"

"Spending Christmas with you and Agnes. Such enchanting company calls for the appropriate attire."

She thinks he still has the ability to charm her with impressive ease. She thinks she'll happily let him.

* * *

She loves the lights the most, how the entire city seems to sparkle around them, how he leads her down empty streets and inconspicuous alleys full of hidden beauty and quaint decorations.

He loves the look of wonder in her eyes, how she moves through the crowds so effortlessly, how she grabs his arm enthusiastically and points out things she particularly likes.

* * *

"Do you remember my fantasy, Red?"

They're walking through Central Park, the little girl between them following a path of footsteps left in the snow, the tight grip on her parents' hands preventing her from toppling over.

He turns and smiles at her, can see their entire story unfold in her gaze. The memories she holds there.

_I never let go._

"Vividly."

* * *

"You should get some rest," he tells her innocently. That he's made plans for them in the evening.

When he wakes her a few hours later, it's with Agnes in his arm and a thick wool scarf and matching mittens spread out on the bed.

"You'll need those. The surprise is waiting."

"Where are we going?"

"That's not exactly how surprises work, Lizzie."

"And Agnes?"

"She's my partner in crime. Now, are you ready? There's a car waiting for us."

It's a quick drive through the busy streets of Midtown and he can't fully hide his anticipation, hopes it all works out, as elaborate as his undertaking might have been.

"Patience. We're almost there," he says as he leads her down 42nd street and she doesn't miss his quick nod to a security guard, wonders why he opens a closed gate for them until she finds herself in front of a glistening ice rink, strangely empty and quiet, and it takes her a moment to understand.

All for her. This is all for her.

She can't quite believe it.

"How did you do it?" she asks in disbelief.

"Certain people owed me some favors." As if it's nothing. A pair of skates waiting for her on a bench close-by. The relief that everything went according to plan. "Merry Christmas, Lizzie."

Much later that night she'll rest her head on his pillow and kiss him, softly, gently, a whispered  _thank you_ and skin against skin. Devotion and trust.

She'll be happy he convinced her to take a break.

She won't be as hesitant next time.

* * *

"It's nice to be home."

"Because you're hoping for French toast in the morning?"

"Maybe."

* * *

They opt for a quiet New Year's Eve, their own home the perfect setting, casual and familiar.

She sneaks out when he's busy preparing dinner, goes upstairs and dons an elegant dress, one of his favorites, perfectly appropriate for stealing priceless artifacts at an embassy, or just an evening with her family, yes, that works too.

He's concentrating on mixing the ingredients when she walks up behind him,  _can I help_ , and he quickly looks over his shoulder,  _no need, Lizzie_ , before he pauses and fully turns around. It's almost comical, his expression, and she watches him swallow before he regains his composure, ever the professional, up to the challenge. When she joins him at the counter to keep him company, he leans over, his voice a low rumble in her ear.

"Quite the attire," he notes with a mischievous smirk.

"Special occasion."

* * *

"I think someone will miss the fireworks."

The little girl is fast asleep on the couch, a stuffed penguin held tightly in her grasp.

"I'll put her to bed," he says, picks her up gently and walks to her room, makes sure she's comfortable in her bed before he kisses her forehead and turns off the lights.

"A bit early, but true all the same. Happy New Year, sweetheart."

* * *

"Care for a dance?"

"It's almost midnight, Red."

"My point exactly," he whispers as he takes her hand and draws her close, gently starts swaying them back and forth. "I couldn't think of a better way to ring in the new year." His arm around her waist and her laughter against his skin. "Could you?"


End file.
